Receiving a Eulogy
by kimirasarielle
Summary: Duo is having a hard time dealing with Heero's death. 2 x 1 one-sided slash, angsty.


Warning!  This story contains angst and adult language!  Oh come on, do any of you really care?  I thought not.  Go ahead, read on!

Receiving a Eulogy 

by sarielle

       _So.  He's gone now.  Where does that leave me?_

       I sigh and sit down at the table.  Grab the joint and light it.  Inhale.  I feel a little better now.  I sigh and look around the room.  He wouldn't approve of me living like this.  He'd say I was wasting my life.  I run my hand through my hair.  I'd ask him what life he was talking about.  And he would scowl and turn away from me.  He'd be fed up with my fooling around.

       I scratch absently at my arm.  I feel a little better now.  The joint's beginning to work on me.  He thought it was irresponsible of me to take drugs like this.  With marijuana, I'd just smile and laugh and tell him there were a lot worse things I could be doing.  He didn't think anything was okay.  After all, a person could die from taking drugs.

       It's funny, him talking about dying.  After all, he's the one with the death wish.

       I get up and walk over to my computer.  I turn it on and open my message box.  There're three new messages.  I look at two of them.  Business messages.  Throw them in the trash.  The other one's interesting.  I check out it's coding, and conclude that it's okay.

       It's from her again.

       Since he died, she hasn't left me alone.  I'm taking all this stuff way too hard, she says.  She doesn't like the drugs either, and she doesn't like the neighborhood I'm living in, and she doesn't like the people I'm associating with.

       _A sob and a tear and she tucks her hair behind one ear.  "Do you think I'm happy he's dead?"_

       I open the message.  She's angry at me again.  She found the people who killed him.  They're dead.  Did I have anything to do with this?

       Of course.  She must think I'm dumb!  She knows that I killed them, and I'm aware of that.  She's trying to throw me off my guard.  Trying to find out if I'd tell her the truth or not.  I start to type her a reply.

       _Hello again.  It's so upsetting to go so long without hearing from you.  I'd love to get more letters, you know.  And also, I notice that in this one you don't once make a comment about the way I'm squandering away my life.  Should I take that as a sign of your approval?  I haven't changed anything, of course.  My apartment is still a mess, I still get high four times daily, and I still kill innocent people right and left.  Well, you've got me there; they're not innocent any more.  I think it's a little bit more useful of me to knock off the guilty ones.  After all, your stupid governments don't do even a half-assed job of punishing them.  He was much better when it came to that, wasn't it?  And that's why they knocked them off, wasn't it?  Oh yes, you keep telling me that.  It was bound to catch up to him sooner or later.  Well, what about me?  And what about the others?  When the hell is it going to catch up to them?  When the hell is it going to catch up to you?  I know you haven't killed anyone firsthand, but I also know that there're quite a few people who've died because of you.  They've defended you.  Given their lives to defend you.  Do you think he would have done that?  Do you think I would?_

_       Would you give any life to save yourself?_

_       No, you'd rather die.  That's pretty fucked up, you know.  Do you think you'll get some reward for doing that?  Do you think you'll get a better spot in heaven?  Heaven doesn't exist.  But I guess that's good, since neither does hell, which is where I'd probably end up.  Hey, it's where I belong!_

_       And if it existed, that'd be where he was too._

_       Don't kid yourself about things.  He saved a bunch of people, but he killed more.  If he hadn't been born, those people wouldn't have died anyway.  They would've just been subjected to another totalitarian government, but so what?_

_       You could have saved him.  You could have tried harder.  You could have followed all those rumors you heard down to the source, and squashed them.  But you didn't.  And he died._

_       He's dead._

_       And part of you is glad.  Remember that part.  That ruthlessness was the one thing that made you great._

       I stretch my hands and hit the send button.

       I don't want to ruin her life.  I just want to make her cry a little.  Make her think about what she could have done.  Make here yell and hit the computer screen and throw her lamp against the wall and collapse on the floor.  She'll write me a letter back, denying everything I said about her and asking me if I need help.  Asking me if I feel that way.  Do I need help?  No, I'm fine on my own.  But she won't believe me and so she'll write me back again, and I'll write her another one of these letters.  I only write one like this every other time.  Otherwise she'd stop writing back to me.  If I made her feel too bad, she'd simply cut herself off.

       It has to be done slowly.

       I smile and look down at my arm.  I've been scratching it all this time.  The skin is turning red.  I scowl, doing my best impression of him, and stop scratching.  I open a game of computer solitaire.  People don't understand this stuff's addictive property.  Nowadays everyone's into much more high-tech stuff, but they forget how much fun the classics can be.  I know it, of course.  The human mind feels comfortable with the things it's used to.

       How comfortable was he with death?

       Four onto five and I double-click the new card.  Put it down and put the two up on the ace.  I need a black jack.  I need a black jack or I can't win.

       I grin at that thought.  I'm not really into gambling.  It's kind of stupid and childish.  Why lose all that money?  If I were really good at it, that'd be a different story.  When you enjoy what you do, and when you're the best at it, it becomes your art.  I am a master artist.  So was he.  But he's dead now, and that makes everything he did that more valuable.  Almost no one recognizes an artist's efforts during their own lifetime.  At least he got some recognition.  And now he's got martyrdom.  I wonder what he'd think of that?

       _A snort and a scowl and he turns and walks away from me._

       I frown and close the game.  It's too easy to win.  It gets that way after a while, and then it's not fun anymore.  When it gets that way, you've just gotta quit and play another game.  So I search the computer, but I've beaten all the games.  Too easy.  So what's addictive?  What can I lose myself in and just do mechanically?  Solitaire's one.  It's really the best one, I think.  I also like the snake game, but that's a little too involving.  You can't lose yourself as easily; it takes too much concentration.

       I open up a shooter.

       Why do humans have such a fascination with death?  I guess that question's pretty hypocritical of me.  But I've accepted death lots of times.  More than that I've been the one who caused it.  Maybe it's because we're around death so much, but there's still so much we're not certain of.  Me, I'm certain of it.  There is no God, or god, or gods, or anything.  No G-d either.  It always annoyed me when I saw it written like that.  What's so special about God?

       _But deliver us from evil.  Amen._

       God gives life?  Bullshit!  God takes life.  The only reason he gives it is so that he can take it.  He likes to rip it out of people's hands and see then writhe and cry and gag and bleed and scream from the pain.

       The only real God is death.  And who causes death?  We do.  So we're gods, then, are we?  Those of us who cause death are.  We give life to other people.  We take lives to save lives.  Is that an oxymoron?

       No, God isn't real.  So why the hell should I get down and pray to him?  I don't worship any fucking idols!

       _Oh God no, he can't be dead!  Oh God, oh God, please, I'll do anything!  Just bring him back to me!  Oh God, oh God, no!_

       I get up and stretch.  The computer's still on.  The screen-saver is a little dancing mouse.  I grin and start to dance too, swinging my hips from side to side.  My hair swings in time to the beat of the cheesy digital music, and I start to really get into it.  I leap across the room, spinning and dipping and rubbing on chairs and hitting the wall and stomping my feet and throwing my head from side to side.  It's all too easy.  I start to dance faster, spinning and spinning and spinning and jumping up and then falling down to the floor and spinning on my side and then getting back up and jumping into the splits.

       I love to dance.  I'm not the best in the world at it, but it's still fun.  I used to dance all the time.  That was when I lived somewhere else.  And the people I danced with?  The ones who first showed me how to dance?  They were murdered.

       Fun isn't a waste of time.  He thought it was, but he was wrong.  It's a valid way to work out tensions.  Dancing is an especially good way, because the physically activity helps you with exercise too.  

       I find myself dancing over to one side of the room, and I end up standing in front of my huge plywood dresser.  Cheap.  Found it at a junk sale in one of the nicer parts of town.  I stop dancing and stare at it.  There's a small mark on the top of it.  Reddish-brown.  Blood?  Probably.  I don't know whose it is.  Feeling guilty, I open the bottom drawer and take out his picture.  I set it on the top of the dresser and stare at it.  He's not smiling, of course.  It's too bad.  I think he'd be so handsome if he smiled…

       I wish he would've smiled for me at least once before he died.  But he didn't, so I guess I have to live with it.  Maybe I was just getting my hopes up.  I don't think he would've smiled for anyone.  But didn't he?  Ever?  Once?  

       The music is still playing.

       I frown and the corners of my mouth sink drastically.  He probably smiled.  Maybe he did for her, or maybe when he was just a kid.  He must've been a cute kid.  

       Yes, but now he's a rotting skeleton with bits of moldy flesh hanging off of it, and worms crawling in and out of the eye sockets, and six feet of dirt overhead.

       I glare at the computer, at the dancing mouse.  How the hell can anyone be happy now that he's gone?  He was the inspiration for all of us!  He gave us a goal to strive for, and put meaning in our lives!  I pick up a small empty automatic and hurl it at the computer screen.  It shatters and the computer itself starts to beep angrily.  I glare at it and pick up another automatic and shoot three times and the damn thing shuts up.

       I'm a bit pissed off at myself, and I set the gun down.  I pick up the picture again.  He's staring at me, and this time, it's only at me.  What does he think of me now?  I'm not goofing off anymore.  I'm serious now.  I'm throwing all my time into my work.  It's my art, right?  I smile wryly, and think about that.  Was I happier before?  Hell yes.  But I wasn't as good at my job, was I?  Did his death make me more dedicated?  No.  No.  No.  I rub my head.  I worked just as well then.  I just wasn't as serious.  It was fun for me then.  Now it's an art, I guess.

       I look back at his picture, lying on the bed, and my gaze follows his.  He's staring at my partially used joint.  I feel a bit of a blush coming to my cheeks.  Shouldn't I be paying honor to his memory by respecting his wishes?  He didn't like me doing this stuff.  No, but would he make a big deal about it if he were here?  He'd scowl at me and turn away.  He seemed to do that a lot.  I guess that was his biggest fault.  He wasn't totally perfect.  Yeah, he had a real problem with connecting to people.  He didn't like making commitments.  I can understand that part of him.  I don't like it either.  What's the point of relying on someone?  Eventually, they'll die, or leave you, or turn against you, and then you're left with this huge ravaging hole inside of you, reaching out in need of that lost element.  I frown at the joint.  I'm going to need to go and get some more.  I'm nearly out.  I don't grow my own, and I don't roll them either.  It's too much trouble for me.  I'm usually too busy with other stuff.  In fact, I usually don't get this much free time.  But still, I need to go buy some more.  I know where to go to buy drugs; you know all the right places once you've lived in this neighborhood for a while.

       I finger my hair and look at the picture.  Slowly, methodically, I turn the frame over and slide the picture out.  Taped behind it is a small note, written on a piece of paper.

       _We got the first one of you.  Don't worry; we wouldn't be so half-assed as to just stop there.  You'll get your turn, so just wait patiently 'til we get to your spot on the list._

       I grin, remembering the way I had killed them.  It was slow, and it was fun, and it was complete.  In her letter a while back, the one where she told me she had found the killers, the stupid bitch said she didn't think it had been my work, because the person who had knocked them off hadn't done it immediately after his death.  According to her, if it'd been me, I wouldn't found them right away and knocked them off even sooner.  Of course, that's usually the method I apply, so I can't really blame her.  If I really want someone dead, I do it as soon as I get a spare moment.  However, in the case of the bastards who killed him, I thought a slow and painful more appropriate.  To pull it off in just the right way, I had to invest a lot of time and effort investigating those assholes.  I found out every detail of their lives, from the first person they had slept with to their greatest fear.  

       I got the idea of how to kill them from a book.  I used to read a lot when I was younger.  Besides dancing, they taught me to appreciate other forms of expression.  They didn't have all the books though, and I was curious about the ones they didn't.  A lot of books that had been banned years and years ago were missing from their shelves.  They thought they weren't appropriate, I guess.  I read every one of them I could find.  I used to tear through them; book after book after book, and all the ideas filled my head and then spilled out.  I held on to what I thought was important.  Since the time when I was even younger when all the people had died, I had always been interested in death, so I filed away sentences about how best to kill someone.  I remembered the different kinds of torture that were used in the classics, and I imagined what it would be like to see them reenacted.  Years later, I would know.  Of course, this isn't the first time I've used torture like this.

       I grin.  I guess it would freak me out too, if I kept getting hints that someone was stalking me.  The hunt is almost as pleasurable as the kill.  But it's still that part that I like the best.

       _A note is stained in blood.  "Big Brother is watching you.  Do you love him yet?"  A scream and a sob and a pleading voice and I make use of the information I've found and it's to late for them now!_

       I sigh and open another drawer in the dresser.  I look inside.  It's kind of hard to see what's in there, because the light in my apartment's not very good.  I lift out a bag and scowl.  There's not enough left to make a decent hit.  I figure that someone else in my building could probably use it, so I set it aside to give to someone later.  Pass on the joy to another person.

       I think about the others.  They don't really agree with my choice of a lifestyle, but they accept it and figure there's nothing much they can do about it.  Only one of them disagrees with me.  He's really still such a little boy.  We all used to be so naïve.  But life goes on.  Sometimes you get stuck in an endless cycle, and that's when it's dangerous.

       I talked to the boy a couple of days ago.  He says he's tired; he can't fight for peace like this anymore.  He's passing on the torch to someone else.  I grin and I ask him what peace is he talking about?  When did we ever fight for peace?  Ever?  All we've ever caused is war and terror and death.  He asks me why I'm killing people now.  I ask him how he forgot that he killed so many.

       I frown and inspect my hair in the mirror.  There's a little tangle near the end.  I reach up, fix it, and smile.  Imperfection is not acceptable.  Isn't that what he believed?

       I was so stupid to have ever thought we were fighting for peace.  The whole concept is ridiculous.  Fighting for peace.  It's an oxymoron.  Peace is ridiculous!  Peace!  Humans are a violent species by nature!  

       All of us are violent, even those who pretend otherwise.  The gun is still lying on the floor.

       Should I?

       I can imagine its taste spreading through my body.  I place the gun in my mouth, cool and smooth and sweet tasting and suck it and think of him and now it's all over.

       But I know the truth.  I throw the gun down once again.  He wouldn't want me to do this.  He'd want me to get my act together.

       I grin lopsidedly and tuck my hair behind my ear.  Everyone's right.  I am damned attractive.  Could any of them resist me if they had too?  Shit, probably not!  In fact, a lot of them had already been put to that test, and all of them had failed.  If I want somebody, I'll sure as hell have that person.

       Oh fuck, I want him.  Just once, I want to feel him and be part of him and then I can die happy.  I can blink out of existence feeling complete.  Now, there's just an empty hole throbbing inside of me.  None of them could help me fill it.  I tried often enough, but I was just fooling myself.  Love is hell.

       The only one who really bothers me is that old damned friend of mine.  I turned her on to our way of thinking, right, but now she thinks she owns me!

       "_Damn it, where are you going?  Stay with me, you fucking idiot!  I can take care of you!"_

       I scowl, and then realize I'm trying to do an impression of him.  Would he like me more if I acted like him?  Maybe if I behave like that he'll pay more attention to me.  He always did get kind of pissed off by my attitude.  Yeah, and what did I think of his?  When I first met him, I thought he was a suicidal maniac, and he was.  But he was so damned gorgeous…  Just thinking about him now makes me excited.  Did he ever realize the way I felt about him?  He knew I was attracted to him, for sure.  He used that to his advantage several times in making sure I'd cooperate with him.  I didn't really care.  I know how I feel about him.

       I

       _Eyes fill with tears and I'm begging him not to go, and his scowl softens slightly and he looks at me and turns and leaves._

Love

       _Run up and hug him and so happy and he yells and pushes me away._

Him.

       _Face is cold and skin is cold and I scream and try to pump his heart and I can't and oh God no and I slowly press myself against him and my lips meet his and I kiss him and I sob over and over again._

I wish I could be with him, but I can't.  He's dead.  His killers are dead.  I'm dead.  Everyone in the whole fucking world is dead!

       FUCK!  FUCK!  GOD!  JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HOW COULD YOU TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME?!

       I run and ram my head against the wall but it doesn't hurt enough so I do it again, and again.  It still doesn't hurt enough.  I reach up to my scalp and dig my claws into the skin and start to gouge out my flesh.  Ripping at my face now, I run and bash the side of my body against the sharp corner of a cabinet.  I smash my fist into the mirror and I pull it out.  My hand grabs one of the shards and I squeeze it and my hand bleeds.

       Oh fuck, what am I doing?

       I throw the mirror shard down and clutch my hand and sob.  I cry forever, and all my hope floats out and leaves my body and I can't stand this.  He's gone.  I'm never going to see him again.  Why couldn't he have survived?  We could have been so happy…

       Stopping my tears, I stand up stiffly and make my way to the bathroom.  There's a first aid kit in there.  I pick it up and open it and start to fix myself up.  My hand needs the most attention.  It's bleeding quite a bit.  I stare at the blood numbly.  Shouldn't I be like him?  Was he ever upset or disturbed by a little bit of pain and blood?  I bind the hand tightly.  I'll have to go see the doctor later today.

       I have to move on with my life.  I can't take this anymore.  Fuck, I can't live like this.  I wash the blood out of my hair.  I have to forget about him!  I have to move on!

       Oh god, I need to feel his body against me!  Oh god, I have to feel him!  This isn't fair!  Damn it, all I ever wanted was him!  I can't live without him!  I can't!  Damn it, there's no meaning to my life without him!  I'm losing it, I'm losing my mind, oh fuck, I'm losing my mind…

       I stiffen at my own thoughts.  I can't lose it all now.  He wouldn't like that.  He would order me to get it back together!  I sigh and walk over to the bed and sit down.  I guess I have to face the world without him.      

       I run my hands through my dirty hair.  At least my life is better than some of the others.  I'm doing what I want to do.  I'm not fooling myself like that stupid little boy.  I hold no illusions about what we stood for.  I'm not surrounded by that stupid fucking idea that we all fought just for peace.  I'm not stuck in a fucking cycle!

       Life goes on.  My life is moving forward.  I'm moving.  I get off the bed and walk over to the door.  My bandaged hand goes out to open the door and a spasm of pain hits me.

       I grimace and bear the pain and walk out of the apartment.  I smile and leave the building and look at the other people walking by.  They look very happy.  I look very happy.  A girl about my age catches my eye and smiles and winks and then walks away.  I stare after her as she goes, smiling.

       There's still pain coming from my hand.

       I start to walk after her.  She glances back, sees me, laughs, and starts to run.  I start after her.  She's running faster now, but I can keep up with her easily.  My hand is throbbing.  She stops suddenly, expecting me to run into her.  I halt.  She looks at me and giggles.  She's flirting with me.

       I grin at him and wiggle my hips and he scowls and tries to grab the disk back from me but I move out of his range and dangle it from my fingertips.

       The pain in my hand flares up and spreads to the rest of my body.  I grab her wrist and twist it and she cries out, but we're in a bad neighborhood and no one cares.  I knock her down on the ground and kick her and all my pain pours out of me and she's screaming and screaming.  

       People notice me and come over but they only grin and cheer and help me, and they figure she's just a prostitute, which she probably is, so they don't care if she lives or dies.

       My breath is becoming ragged, and I kick the girl again and again and I hit her and I tear at her flesh and my head is spinning and the crowd is cheering.  

       Finally, it's over.

       The girl is already dead, but still the crowd closes in on her, and I shake out my hair and walk away and I smile.  

       She didn't deserve to live.  So many people in this world don't deserve to live.  He did, but they killed him anyway.  

       I grin and walk back toward my apartment.  I'm happy.  Now I know what to do to make everything right again.

       _Oh god and his flesh is so cold and oh god I'm screaming and ripping at my arms and no you can't take him away from me!  No oh god no what can I do oh no god anyone but him anyone but him oh god no you can't take him away from me oh god the pain is filling me oh god I can't live like this oh god oh god oh god!_

       Yes, I know what to do now.  But he's still dead.  So.  Where does that leave me?

_fin_


End file.
